The Aftermath
by ERWG
Summary: Christie Dunbar is stunned to learn that her husband has been blinded in a shootout.


Clusters of people whispered in the waiting room, creating a funereal murmur that flowed past me in waves, stifling me. Friends, family, but mostly cops, waited for word on the condition of the detective who had taken a bullet to the head to save all those lives at the bank.

People approached me, telling me how brave Jim had been and how they knew he would be fine, but I couldn't give any appropriate answers. Out of respect, they withdrew, allowing me my space. I sat alone in a corner, not able to understand what any of this meant. Just three hours ago I had been at work, having an average day. Now I waited to find out if my husband would live and, if the answer was yes, whether he would be able to recover and how long that would take.

I spotted Jimmy's partner, Terry, across the room looking pale and stunned as he answered the questions of the cops around him. I couldn't tell if the questioning was being done officially as part of the investigation or if people were just curious about what had happened. The one time I did manage to catch his eye, he gave me a look I couldn't understand and then stared down at his hands. I didn't blame him. He had been there. He had seen someone shoot my husband in the head.

I wondered what Jimmy was thinking right now. Was he awake? Scared? It would be hard to tell what he was thinking. Jimmy was stoic, which was probably why it had taken me so long to notice that we had stopped communicating. That we were no longer happy. How had our marriage come to be nothing more than a mixture of conflict and habit? Had I been stupid or just busy? Why had it taken me so long to figure out what was really going on?

I shivered. Did I even know the wounded man all these people were here to see? The beautiful blond Jimmy I had married wasn't easy to read, but I used to think I could crack him. I was wrong.

There she is, I thought, spotting a female detective sitting with the rest of the squad, her face pale. Anne. She was the one I had seen with Jimmy just a few nights ago. She was the one with whom Jimmy had later admitted to having an affair. That was the last time I had seen him, that night as we argued and I left with a packed bag to go stay with my sister until we could figure out where things stood with our marriage.

I watched her, fascinated. She was attractive, but certainly not someone I would have felt threatened by. But so different from me. Small. Blond. More cute than pretty.

Even as I looked at her, I couldn't sustain the kind of anger that had been consuming me for the last few days. Not when I didn't know if I'd ever have a conversation with my husband again. Just to talk with him and to have him understand me seemed more important than what he had done.

"Mrs. Dunbar?" a soft male voice said to my left. I jumped and then turned to face the doctor who had spoken.

He was a black middle-aged man with a kind face. A sympathetic face. He sat in the chair beside me. My breath caught in my throat as I waited for him to speak.

He looked into my eyes and sighed, a slight smile crossing his features. "Your husband is very lucky," he began. I felt myself start to relax as his words rushed by. Jimmy was going to live.

"That's good," I said when the doctor paused, but it hit me that he didn't look quite as happy about his news as he should have. "So, he'll make a full recovery?"

The sympathy in the doctor's face deepened. "The news isn't all good," he said, his voice still quiet.

The murmuring had stopped. Looking around, I realized that everyone in the room was looking in our direction, obviously aware that Jimmy's condition was being discussed and hoping to catch what was being said.

"What?" I said, feeling blank.

His voice low, calm, the doctor described Jim's optic nerve and how it had been damaged beyond repair. He didn't say that word, but suddenly I understood what I was being told. My husband was blind.

I tried to imagine him that way but it just didn't make any sense to me. The thought of those dear blue eyes filled my mind. He could almost talk with those eyes. I depended on them to give me clues about what he was thinking whenever he wouldn't tell me, which happened most of the time. Those eyes had been distant lately, shielding me from the secret he had been keeping, but I couldn't imagine them empty.

"So it's permanent?" I asked, surprised that any voice could come out. Everything seemed to have tightened.

"Yes," he said, his eyes looking directly into mine but offering no hope. "With the damage that has been done, there's no hope that your husband will ever see again."

"Does he know?" I asked, struggling to breathe normally. "Is he awake?"

"He regained consciousness for a time in the Emergency Room," he explained. "He told us he couldn't see and seemed worried about it, but we didn't know enough to tell him anything for sure. He should be awake soon and I'm sure he'll start asking right away. You can be with me when I tell him, if you like."

I nodded.

A tall woman in a business suit approached. I recognized her as the hospital administrator who had made sure the press waited outside.

Clasping her hands together, she leaned toward me and spoke quietly, so as not to be overheard. "Mrs. Dunbar? We would like to hold a brief press conference in order to update the public on your husband's condition. I have just been made aware of the nature of his injury and I need to know if any of that information should be withheld for the time being."

My brain felt sluggish. "You mean you want to know if it's okay to announce it to the world before he even knows?"

"That's why I'm asking you first. What would he want done? After what happened at the bank today, there's a lot of media attention and we have to tell them something. This is a huge story. We don't have to disclose the nature of his disability if you prefer to withhold it. We can just state that he's in stable condition."

Disclose the nature of his disability? "I—I can't answer that," I said. "I'll have to ask Jimmy what he wants done. It's kind of personal."

She nodded, a pitying look crossing her face. "I'm aware of that. I'll tell them they can announce that Detective Dunbar will survive and leave it at that for now."

"Thank you," I said, hoping I was doing what Jimmy would want. His reactions were often difficult to predict. Fleetingly, I thought of how odd it was that I was in a position to make this kind of decision for a man I hadn't even planned on staying with just a few hours ago.

"You can see him now," the doctor said, standing and indicating I should do the same. "He will be a little groggy. And don't let his bandages scare you. We have bandaged his eyes for now to help him keep still so he won't try too hard to see, but he really only has a small wound to the temple."

I took a deep breath and followed the doctor down the corridor to Jimmy's room. Nothing felt real. Even harder to imagine than Jimmy's expressive eyes blank and his sure movements halted was the thought of Detective Jim Dunbar immobilized in a hospital bed. But there he was, hospital gown and all, his arms and chest too muscular to be contained by such a flimsy garment. He made a slight movement as we entered the room.

"Are you awake, Detective?" the doctor asked, still in his quiet voice. "I have your wife here to see you."

I liked how the doctor still called Jimmy "detective." But that would be impossible now. In one instant, all that had made Jimmy the man I knew had been stripped from him.

"I'm awake," he said, his voice thick, hoarse. "Christie?"

I wondered if the doctor picked up on the incredulous tone in Jimmy's voice and if he found it odd that Jimmy should be so shocked that his wife was visiting.

"I'm here, Jimmy," I said, picking up his hand. He squeezed in response and I looked down at the wedding ring that should have blatantly signaled to others that he was married. Had Anne not noticed, did she not care, or had Jimmy removed the evidence whenever she was around? I dropped the hand and sat in the chair beside him. There would be time enough to sort through that other mess later. I couldn't muster the necessary anger when only the bottom half of his face peeked through the bandages. When he had so nearly died. When he was about to hear that he would never see again.

"Did I get him?" Jimmy asked.

I shook my head, puzzled. "What?"

"At the bank," he said, each word seeming difficult to form. "The shooter. Did I get him?"

I smiled. "Yes, Jimmy. You got him. You saved a lot of lives today. Everyone is dying to know how you're doing."

"So, how _am_ I doing?" he asked.

I opened my mouth, but found I couldn't answer his question. I looked up at the doctor.

"You're a lucky man, Detective," the doctor said.

I wondered if Jimmy would feel so lucky when he knew how he was to spend the rest of the life that had been spared.

The doctor told him about the damaged optic nerve and that nothing could be done about it. The small part of Jimmy's face I could see didn't change with the news. He stayed silent and perfectly still even after the doctor had finished with his explanation.

"Jimmy?" I said, reaching for his hand again.

As soon as I made contact, Jimmy pulled his hand out of mine and brought it up to his mouth, something he did when he was thinking.

"Social Services will be in touch with you," the doctor continued. "They will set you up with some training and you'll be able to—"

Jimmy waved his hand toward the doctor. It was his "I'm done listening to you" gesture. One I knew very well.

"I think it's too soon," I told the doctor. "Can you get back to us about Social Services?"

"Of course," he said, leaving.

"Christie?" Jimmy said after the doctor was gone.

I didn't even realize I wasn't answering. The pit of my stomach felt heavy and sick. What would he do now? My headstrong independent husband was never going to be the same again and I knew he wouldn't be able to handle it. To accept it. He wasn't someone who had the patience to relearn things. He wouldn't be able to find the bright side of having his life screech to a halt.

"Christie?" he said, this time with an urgency verging on panic. "Are you still there?"

I closed my eyes so he couldn't see how they had begun to water, but then I realized how stupid that was and allowed tears to escape down my cheeks in privacy. "I'm here. Jimmy, this may not be the time but I need to ask you something. They are having press conferences to give updates about your condition. How much are they allowed to say? For now, I told them they can say you're in stable condition. How private do you want this other thing kept?"

He sighed and that thinking hand went back up to his lip. "I don't know, Christie. Should I get a second opinion? A third opinion?"

A third opinion. So he didn't even have faith in the results the second opinion would yield. He knew. Being a cop had taught him when a fact couldn't be avoided and he faced that fact now as coldly and methodically as if he was working a case.

"You could," I said cautiously. "I'm sure you will, knowing you. That's fine. It can't hurt. But it doesn't sound good, Jimmy. It doesn't sound like there's much room for doubt."

A ragged breath escaped through his lips, but then they tightened with some kind of resolve. "I know," he said hoarsely. "Go ahead and tell them they can announce whatever they want. I'd just as soon get it over with all at once without us having to tell everyone. It's kind of handy we have the press to do it for us, isn't it?"

And then he smiled. That glimpse of his true self peeking through bandages and blindness and bad news heartened me. This was still Jimmy. Of course he could still smile, but it was shocking to see.

"Yeah," I agreed, smiling back even though he couldn't share the connection of that moment with me. I hoped he would hear it in my voice.

His smile vanished and he bit his lip, a sign of something even deeper troubling him. "Christie, I'm sorry," he said.

"Why—?" I started to say before it hit me he was talking about Anne. He had tried to apologize already, but I had left, almost at a run. Leaving Jimmy wasn't an easy thing to do. He didn't always have words to express his feelings, but when he got worked up enough, the things he said often moved me to the point of giving in to him. If I had allowed him to continue talking, he probably could have convinced me to stay.

Looking at him shifting in his hospital bed, I shivered, wondering how I would be feeling right now had he not survived. What if my last sight of Jimmy alive had been his face as he pleaded with me to stay? It was bad enough that the last time he saw me with his eyes, I was crying and furious, leaving him.

"Christie?" he said, turning his face toward me.

I wondered how he was interpreting my silence. "I'm still here," I said.

He sighed. "I can't say it enough. I'm just—sorry."

"Jimmy, now isn't the time—"

"I know."

Silence grew between us again. This was too much. How could I look at my husband, weak and blind, probably terrified, and allow myself to feel betrayed? Everything I knew was inside out. For me to express anger now would be selfish. How had that happened?

"You really shouldn't be worrying about that now," I said, reaching for his thinking hand again so he could feel some kind of connection with me. "Right now I'm too relieved by the fact that I can have a conversation with you to hold much of a grudge. You scared me to death. Just focus on getting better."

I stopped at a gesture from him and marveled at how his body language was speaking to me almost as eloquently as his eyes ever had.

"You left. I didn't think I'd ever see—" he broke off with a sharp intake of breath and then closed his mouth tightly, letting that breath out slowly through his nose.

The sound of that breath—the meaning of that breath—hit me, helping me to glimpse the smallest part of what must have been passing through his mind. My own breath caught in my throat and my eyes burned, startling me with how quickly the tears streamed down my face.

"We shouldn't be talking about this right now," I said, trying to keep the tears out of my voice. Jimmy didn't need me falling apart. He needed us to be normal. "Get some rest, Jimmy. I have to go talk to the hospital administrator to let her know what she can tell the press. I'll be back in the morning."

"Are you okay?" he asked.

"I'm fine," I said shortly.

He shook his head. "You don't sound fine."

His persistence made me laugh, the sound surprising me as much as my tears had a moment before. "Of course I'm not fine, Jimmy," I admitted. "But I will be. Good-bye."

He seemed surprised when I kissed him.

"I love you, Christie," he said when I had turned to go.

He hadn't said that to me in a long time. I went back to him and ran a finger along his jaw before kissing him again. "I love you too, Jimmy. Try and rest now."

The crowd in the waiting room was smaller now that the truth about Jimmy's condition had been announced. Flashing on the television screen in the waiting room was a recent photo of Jimmy and the news that the hero of the shootout at the bank had been blinded in action. Those who were left still spoke softly together, many of them looking shocked. Terry sat alone in a corner, his head buried in his hands.

"Hey," I said, sitting beside him.

He jumped and looked at me, his face strangely old. "Christie," he said, seeming to have trouble maintaining eye contact. "How are you doing?"

At that point, any sign of sympathy was going to undo me. Terry's concern for me, even in the middle of his own obvious pain, evoked tears I couldn't keep in check. He handed me a tissue and put his arm around me, allowing me time to regain my composure. Terry was a good friend. Jimmy and I had seen a lot of him outside of work over the last three years and knew him well. Losing Jimmy as a partner was going to be hard on him.

"You saw him?" he asked quietly after I had straightened up again. "Was he awake?"

I nodded.

"How is he?" he asked.

"He's blind."

The words made Terry wince. I almost winced with him. I couldn't be saying such a thing about Jimmy.

He nodded. "I know. How is he taking it?"

I shrugged. "He's Jimmy. How does he take anything? He doesn't show much."

"But he has to be devastated."

"I'm sure he is. How is Anne?" I asked, watching Terry closely.

"My wife Annie?" he asked.

"No, Anne."

He frowned. "Anne?" he said, sounding confused. "Anne Donnely? Why are you asking about her? How do you know Anne?"

"I don't know her. I've just—heard about her."

"She's new. Only been with our squad for the last month or two. She sure seems upset about Jimmy, though. I guess they were friends."

So he didn't know. Some small part of me was comforted. At least Jim had been discreet.

"How are you doing, Terry?" I asked.

He looked down. "Fine. I'm fine. I don't have a scratch, do I? Do you think I can talk to Jimmy soon? When can he have more visitors?"

"I'm sure he will be thrilled to—to see you, Terry. You're a good partner to him."

He looked away. "I tried to be."

I drove home, giving in to the thoughts invading my mind. Jimmy had me in a spot, leaving me torn between my anger over his betrayal, my fear for his life, and the strange concept that the Jimmy I had married and who had cheated on me was gone, replaced by someone who might actually need me a little. If I left him, people, including Jimmy, would think it was because he was blind. If I stayed, I went against my own better judgment because an affair was never something I thought I could forgive. I was the injured party in our marriage but he would get all the sympathy—not that that mattered under the circumstances.

Still unsettled, I went to bed. Alone. How strange it was to be back in our home again. Without Jimmy. That moment of rolling over and seeing his empty spot undid something inside me and I knew that all I wanted was my Jimmy back. I wanted to feel his strong arms envelope me and feel him breathing down my neck as we drifted off to sleep. And he was alone in the dark hospital, wondering if I was going to leave him.

Tears that had been close to the surface for the last several hours ran down my face as my body shook with sobs. Who was the man I would be bringing home from that hospital? I saw him in my mind, sad, dependent, scared, childlike. That wasn't Jimmy. He was gone. My husband was now someone else.

What if he no longer wanted me? What if he wasn't attracted to my personality now that he couldn't see me? Had there ever been anything of substance to our marriage or had the whole thing been an illusion? I didn't even know how much of my own attraction was because of his beauty, his masculinity, how safe he made me feel. If he was different and I was just a disembodied voice to him, what hope did we have of making a marriage work?

Most of the bandages were off in the morning. I hadn't been prepared for that. I had thought I would see only the bottom part of Jimmy's face like yesterday and that he would be lying inertly back, speaking slowly.

Instead, he seemed disarmingly normal. His bed was adjusted to an almost upright position and the bandages only covered his left temple and went around his head. I could see his eyes, startlingly blue and fringed with thick lashes. Two detectives from his precinct sat beside him making small talk. I didn't try to follow what they were saying, but it seemed to be doing the trick. Jimmy smiled at them as they joked. I watched from the doorway, searching his face for a glimmer of recognition. Maybe there had been a mistake and he could see after all.

No. It was subtle, but the difference was there. In his movement, his smile, the tilt of his head. He couldn't see.

"Good morning," I said, still standing in the doorway.

Jimmy jerked his head toward me, his useless eyes seeming to search for me. "Christie," he said, smiling.

The two detectives greeted me warmly and left, promising to be back later to check up on Jimmy. I took their spot at the head of the bed. "Hey," I said, wondering what else I could possibly have to say to him.

He sat with his head bowed slightly, not quite facing me, as he fingered his blankets. "How are you doing?" he asked, the concern in his voice genuine. He looked toward me and, for a second, almost seemed to see me. But then his eyes went vacant, like a light being extinguished. It grew harder to find him in that face that was so familiar and yet so different.

"I'm okay, Jimmy," I said faintly. "I—I missed you in our bed last night. I just want you to come home."

His face grew pained, eyebrows drawing together with suppressed emotion. It was always suppressed. "You do?"

"You want to come home, don't you?"

The corners of his mouth went down for a moment in one of his many characteristic thinking expressions. "If you're there."

"I'll be there."

He shook his head, not looking comforted by my reassurance. "But maybe we should talk about—"

"Why?" I interrupted. "Jimmy, you were shot. I'm here no matter what."

"I don't want you to stay out of obligation, especially now."

"It doesn't matter why I stay. I'm your wife. That's what wives do. We said vows, remember? 'In sickness and in health.'"

"'Forsaking all others,'" he said, the pained look back between his eyebrows.

"Are you trying to get me to change my mind?" I asked, trying to sound light, teasing.

It worked. Again, his face cracked in a surprising smile. "If you're really sure…"

"Jimmy, all I care about is getting you well and seeing you strong again. I know we have a lot of other things to deal with, but that can wait. Okay?"

All expression left his face. I searched my words, trying to see what had triggered the reaction. He wouldn't say, of course, but he was probably thinking he would never again be well or strong.

"Thank you, Christie," he said hoarsely. "I don't deserve you."

I leaned over to hold him, resting my head on his chest. "No, you don't. But you never have. At least now you're admitting it. That's one good thing."

I actually got a low chuckle out of him. He stroked my hair. "Always looking at the positive," he said.

"What did the doctor say to you this morning?" I asked. "I notice they removed most of the bandages. That seemed kind of quick, don't you think?"

He shrugged, his face matter-of-fact. "Well, ironically, there is nothing wrong with my eyes so they decided I don't need the bandages after all. Funny, huh? I guess once the damage is done, there isn't really much that can damage them further."

"You look good," I said, running a hand over the tousled blond hair spilling over the bandage around his forehead.

He tensed. It was almost imperceptible but I was noticing everything. "Do I?" he asked.

"I'd tell you if you didn't," I said, hoping it was the truth.

"I want you to, Christie. I—I haven't wanted to ask anyone. This is so weird."

"Have you had many visitors?" I asked, looking around at all the balloons, cards, and flowers. "It looks like a lot of people have been thinking about you."

He closed his eyes and leaned back. "A few have stopped by. Cops on their way to work. A lot of the gifts were sent by people who don't even know me but who saw the story on the news. A nurse read me the cards. My parents were here last night after you left. Mom wanted me to thank you for going to such trouble to get a hold of them."

"How are they?" I asked, watching him closely. I knew how upset his mother had sounded on the phone, particularly since I had tracked them down on their vacation and they were several hours away. How had they reacted? What had they said? Knowing the Dunbars, everyone had behaved as if nothing was any different about Jimmy, but his mother was probably crushed and his father had undoubtedly spent most of the night in a bar, trying to forget that his only son, the source of so much pride, could no longer see.

"They're…" he shrugged, shaking his head and letting his hands drop to his sides.

I searched my mind for a way to change the subject. "Has Terry been by? I saw him last night. He was pretty broken up about this."

Jim frowned. "He should be," he said, a bitter note creeping into his voice for the first time since the shooting.

"What's wrong with you, Jimmy? He's your friend."

His expression hardened. "This is his fault."

"He set a crazed gunman loose on you?" I asked.

"Did anyone wonder why I shot the gunman with Terry's gun instead of my own?" he asked.

"I haven't heard anything about that," I admitted. "That wasn't exactly where my brain was yesterday."

"The other detectives are talking about it. Terry froze. He didn't take him out when he had the chance so I had to do it. By then it was already too late and…" he shrugged, gesturing toward his eyes.

"He wants to see you, Jimmy."

"I'll bet he does."

"What are you going to do?"

"If he comes here, tell him I'm not ready, will you? I don't want him here."

I nodded. "Okay. If that's what you want."

"About that other thing," he said, that suppressed look creeping along his features once more, "I won't let that happen again."

I wondered if he was thinking it too. Without sight, much of the temptation would be gone. Perhaps even many of the opportunities. I wanted to believe he spoke with the genuine desire to change, but common sense told me he had just been forced to change against his will. This wasn't how I wanted to keep my husband faithful. Even so, I knew I would have him all to myself now. He would finally need me for something. I would be more than a pretty wife to show off at parties.

Jim had never needed me before. This independence used to be part of his appeal. Now, after four years of marriage, it left me empty. With all that I wanted to give, there was no one on the receiving end so I put everything into my work instead. I had wanted things to change, but not like this.

"I really want to believe that, Jimmy," I said.

A sheepish smile appeared, but didn't quite reach his eyes. "Hey, be nice to the blind guy, okay?"

So he was the one using that word. I had assumed we weren't talking about it yet. The conversation had been so normal that I had nearly forgotten he couldn't see.

"Is there any vision at all?" I asked, realizing I was changing the subject abruptly.

His eyes seemed to take in the cramped hospital room, moving in an arc before coming to rest again in neutral space. The corners of his mouth went down and he shook his head. "Nothing."

"Do you want to talk about it?"

A frown flickered across his face, but he even suppressed that. "What would that accomplish?"

"It could let me in on what you're feeling."

"What I'm—Christie, let's just focus on the day-to-day things, okay? I just need to do what I have to do and leave it at that. This is the way it is."

"You seem so accepting."

It was obviously the wrong thing to say. He shook his head. "I don't know what you expect me to be doing here."

This Jimmy baffled me. He wasn't behaving at all as I had expected. Yes, he was prickly and reluctant to discuss being blind, but where was his anger? His bitterness? Why wasn't he giving up? His lack of negativity worried me because it felt like something could be building, simmering beneath the surface. But maybe we just weren't that far along yet. Maybe it was easier to accept limitations while in a hospital bed.

"I asked for the Social Services people," he said, smiling grimly and then sighing. "I need to be doing something. I don't want to be sitting around when I go home."

"You don't have to rush into anything," I said. "Don't push yourself, Jimmy. You need time to get better."

"I always push myself. That's who I am."

Who you were, I wanted to say but didn't. Plenty of time for him to figure that out for himself.

"I know," I said.

"If I'm going to get back on the job, I need to be ready to—"

"Back on the job!"

I couldn't help it. Since that moment yesterday when the doctor had told me Jimmy would never see again, I had known he was no longer a cop. As exciting and macho as I had always found his job, I was finally going to be able to relax, knowing my husband wouldn't be in danger every day. His assertion that he could possibly go back on the job threw me into a confusion of pity and common sense.

"I need to do it, Christie," he said, his voice strangely resonant in spite of being low in tone. "It's not just what I do, it's who I am."

Hot tears rushed to my eyes as I searched his face. "But—Jimmy—"

"And don't tell me that I can't do it," he said. It was there in his voice. A warning.

Jimmy wanted me to go back to work. "There's no point in you spending all your time here at the hospital," he said. "Maybe you should save your vacation days for when I go home. I'm going to need you more then."

I didn't like this idea and was only convinced by his use of the word "need." When had he ever admitted to having a need for me? Reluctantly, I agreed, but I still stopped by to see him every morning before work, during my lunch hour, and in the evening, when I always brought him a nice dinner.

"Thank you for rescuing me from hospital food," he said, sniffing the air as I entered with Chinese food.

Eating was proving to be a challenge for him. At first I just brought sandwiches, but Jimmy was too spoiled to stand for that for long so I went with his whims. I told him what was on his plate or in his to-go boxes and Jimmy tried his best to eat neatly, but he wasn't always able to keep everything contained. For someone as meticulous as Jimmy, this had to be frustrating, but neither one of us made mention of it. Whenever he dropped food or knocked something over or did anything to make a mess, he just straightened up and seemed grimly resolved not to repeat the mistake. He seldom did repeat his mistakes, although there were always plenty of new ones to be made. Jim had an impressive memory and seemed set on taking in whatever he could with whatever senses he had left.

The hardest part was watching those strong hands as they fumbled for something. He had always been poised, moving with a graceful confidence. Now his fingers seemed awkward at everyday tasks and his eyes clouded over with hopelessness when he found himself stuck.

Once I arrived while he was in the bathroom. I sat quietly and waited for him to emerge, smiling at the muttered curse words I overheard from within. The frustration he stifled for witnesses was still there when he thought he was alone. This comforted me for some reason.

When the door opened, Jimmy stood, wearing scrub pants and a tank top, holding onto the doorframe. I smiled my encouragement, but the expression froze on my face as I realized he thought he was alone. I watched, fascinated by a voyeuristic sensation as Jimmy felt his way to the bed, arms stretched in front of him zombie style, feet shuffling. He would never knowingly allow himself to be seen moving like this, I knew. The helplessness of his shuffling feet and the way he felt around for anything familiar were reactions he repressed whenever I was there.

I knew I would have to alert him to my presence some time, but I couldn't leave and come back without him noticing and I didn't like the idea of speaking now, after having watched him shuffle to the bed, thinking he was alone. Before I had much time to worry about this, Jimmy stopped at the side of his bed and turned to face me.

"Christie?" he said, eyes opening wide with shock.

I laughed with surprise. "Yeah, Jimmy. I just got here."

He shook his head and climbed into bed. "Don't do that."

"What?"

"Just tell me when you're there, Christie."

"I—I was about to. How did you—?"

"Your lotion. It wasn't in the air before I got up."

"That's good, Jimmy. I mean, that you were so quickly able to tell I was here."

"I've always had a good nose," he said, feeling for the remote control. He clicked the TV on, the volume loud enough to make me jump. He felt the buttons, and pushed something, but the volume grew louder.

"Shit!" he said.

"Here, Jimmy." I leaned over and turned down the volume. "Is that what you wanted?"

"Just shut it off," he said, turning his face away from me. "I'm not really in the mood to watch soap operas right now anyway."

I did as he asked and then reached over to stroke the blond hairs on his arm, smiling to myself over the thought of Jimmy ever being in the mood to watch soap operas. Few people could claim to have arms as beautiful as his and I liked to touch them when I could. He tensed, looking tempted to scoot away from me but not quite doing it.

"What's wrong, Jimmy?" I asked.

"I'm going home tomorrow," he said.

"That's good! I'll call in and get the rest of the day off so I can get things ready for you and then tomorrow we can celebrate and…" my words died at the look on his face.

"Celebrate?" he said bitterly.

That was all he had to say on the subject. As usual, I had to watch him for clues and try and fill in the rest of his thoughts for myself. It was probably hitting him, the realization that he would be going home a different person from the detective who had left for work on the day of the shooting. The enormity of the change was only starting to hit me, so I couldn't even imagine what was going through Jimmy's head as he tried to grasp the life he now had before him.

"I want to celebrate," I said stubbornly. "I'm getting you back. That's a big deal to me, Jimmy. It's been so lonely there without you."

He tried to smile, but it came out a little lopsided. "Well, you'll have plenty of me now, won't you?"

"Hey, Jimmy," a familiar voice said from the doorway. Terry's voice.

I looked from Terry to Jimmy anxiously, noting the way Jimmy had gone pale and how his face had lost all expression.

"Hi, Terry," I said when I realized Jimmy couldn't or wouldn't respond.

He stayed where he was in the doorway, seeming to wait for an invitation Jimmy wouldn't give and that I couldn't extend without my husband's approval. However righteous Jim's anger was, I couldn't feel anything but sympathy as I met Terry's miserable eyes. Had it really been his fault? Jim seemed to think it had been, although he hadn't been able to bring himself to say anything too incriminating about Terry to the detectives who were investigating what had happened and how Jim had come to shoot the perp with Terry's gun. However much Jim blamed Terry for his blindness, he wasn't about to be disloyal to his partner.

"I'll talk to him outside," I whispered to Jimmy. He nodded.

The way Terry stared at Jimmy, watching him be blind, taking in every subtle difference, pitying him, made me even more eager to get him out of that doorway. It seemed intrusive when Terry looked at Jimmy. I didn't want anyone looking at my husband like that.

"I'm sorry if I upset him by coming," Terry said as I walked him through the hospital corridors. "I just—I just had to know if he's okay."

"He's fine," I said shortly. "He's going home tomorrow."

"Good. That's good. Has he—said—anything? About me? I know they're investigating what went on at the bank and I know things look a little—does he even remember what happened?"

Pity flooded me as I looked at the man who was going to have to live even more uncomfortably with Jimmy's blindness than Jimmy himself would. Jimmy was going into this a hero. Terry, a coward.

"He hasn't said anything negative about you to the other detectives," I said, trying to look reassuring. "But I must warn you, Terry. Jimmy remembers everything that happened right up to the shooting and it might be a while before he feels comfortable talking to you."

"But it wasn't—I just—"

"I know, Terry. I don't know exactly what happened, but Jimmy does."

"I've been a good partner for three years—"

"I know, Terry. This isn't about that. How would you feel if you were Jimmy right now?"

"I—" but he didn't have anything else to say. He just stood there with me awkwardly for a moment and then, with a quick kiss on the cheek, was gone.

"I think you should talk to him," I told Jimmy when I got back. "He's messed up."

Jimmy's mouth tightened with a new kind of restraint he had only acquired since going blind. "Is he?" he asked quietly.

I could tell it wasn't what he wanted to say.

"Think about it, Jimmy," I pleaded. "The guilt?"

"Then he should have done his job."

I nodded to myself, understanding Jim's perspective. "Well, enough about Terry, then," I said, trying to add a lilt of fun to my voice to change the mood in the room. "You're going home, Jimmy. Please tell me you can be excited about that."

I could tell he was trying to smile, but the result wasn't very promising. "It's going to be so—different," he said quietly, his head bowed.

I watched him, wondering what it would be like now that he needed me. His words showed promise. He was starting to open up. Soon he would be telling me how he felt about losing his sight. We would begin to talk the way other couples seemed to. We would finally be a team.

"That's okay," I said brightly. "We'll figure it all out. I'll help you to memorize where everything is so you can do whatever you like there and then—"

"I'm going to need to do it myself," he said. "I appreciate the offer, but I can do it. I don't want to be depending on you for every little thing."

"I—I didn't mean for every little thing, of course," I said, feeling that things were flying out of my control. "I just meant at first…"

He turned toward me, seeming to see me. "I know what you mean, but I think I need to do this for myself. Really, Christie. That's how it has to be."

A door that had been opened briefly since Jimmy was shot, allowing me access to his feelings and letting me believe he might actually need me, slammed shut. The man before me in the hospital bed was more like the old Jimmy than I had believed possible. The distance in his eyes, the stubborn set of his mouth, the assertion of independence. This was the man I had married.

Part of me missed the Jimmy I had seen peeking through those blank blue eyes. The one who needed me just a little bit.


End file.
